Billy K. Baker -- The Shaggy Dog Story

Here's a story a friend told me many, many years ago: He had a name no one used anymore—we’ll call him Joe—and was escorted by specters named Life and Death who served mankind’s ultimate archenemy, Time: a nemesis that watched attentively, dispassionately as Life pondered divorcing Joe while Death planned abduction. Joe, unaware his life-fluid was ebbing, docilely accepted encroaching symptoms: persistent stiffness and soreness, diminished hearing and eyesight, arthritic hands and fingers; his gait, once quick and forceful, now slow and guarded; a hint of a limp as he soldiered wearily into a dank, gloomy night. It rained earlier in the day—not a brisk, cleansing rain, but an off-and-on, muggy rain ending in a whimper, its clammy humidity clinging in the air; everything sticky, grubby. Misty rainfall had soaked up industrial pollutants, absorbing them in a malignant, foul fog joined by exhaust fumes lingering doggedly after traffic dwindled—the traffic loosely tethered to daylight. In sum, the air Joe breathed that night was scarcely short of lethal. While rain no longer drizzled, its residue still dampened Joe’s environs: the sidewalk he plodded, the curb and gutter adjoining, the asphalt street beyond. In places, the street glimmered in iridescent, shallow pools of oil seeping from, escaping from, asphalt pores. Harsh, accusing streetlight glare made the street overall glisten like a black snake. Ravenous rainwater gobbled up dirt and debris while journeying sluggishly down gutter, to descend—through filth-encrusted metal grills—into depths excavated long ago by sweaty, dirt-shrouded laborers. The befouled water spilled into a sewer, and boosted its level audibly—a distant, uncertain rushing sound—raising a stink, a miasma emanating from noxious flotsam creeping downstream toward oblivion. Transients like Joe might sit at a curb to rest, but on a night like this they shied away from grill openings. Joe was a nighttime creature, tramping city streets in darkness, a darkness masking his seedy appearance—even from himself—a darkness deterring slick “day” people: those stern-eyed, mission-centric pedestrians forever hurrying somewhere, occasionally bumping transients, more often skirting them as if poisonous or contagious. Shuffling along, Joe hardly noticed the sidewalk’s puddles, splashing heedlessly. He didn’t care if shoddy shoes got wet; didn’t notice as they skidded, as they grated on muddy, gritty grime: a vestige of rainfall’s assault on unprotected, uptown ground. He was not alone. Joe tenderly, lovingly, carried a medium-sized dog under one arm, protecting its paws from pavement muck. His trudging, aimless passage chanced upon an “oasis”—an unfamiliar, unimposing bar. Tired and thirsty, Joe entered through scratched, slightly-askew, swinging doors. He chose the nearest barstool, sat down, and put his dog on the next stool. Mindful of endless rejections, he looked warily at the lone bartender, hoping against hopelessness. Would the barkeep offer a needy man a drink, a little cheer? Max, the bar’s owner, a ruddy-faced, burly ex-wrestler, looked back at Joe, seeing—with distaste—a grizzly-bearded vagrant wearing a once-sporty, now faded, brown jacket, cuffs frayed, shoulder seam split; a poor soul plainly “down on his luck,” one who likely lacked funds for a beer, let alone a whiskey. Glancing at Joe’s dog—a gray shaggy-haired cur of dubious pedigree, of doubtful parentage—the barkeeper bellowed, “Dogs aren’t allowed in here! Take that mutt outside!” Joe drew himself to full height. “He’s no mutt. He’s my pal, Shaggy.” “Regardless,” snorted Max, “the dog goes.” “You don’t understand, sir. Shaggy is no ordinary canine; he can talk!” “I don’t care if he can; out he goes!” “C’mon fella; let Shaggy stay. No one will complain.” Indeed, the dimly-lit barroom was vacant: not a customer, certainly not a policeman, in sight. Perhaps from curiosity or charity or boredom, the bartender relented and made an offer, or was it a dare? “If you can get that mutt …” “Shaggy,” corrected Joe. “If you can get Shaggy to say three words, I’ll let him stay. I’ll even give you a glass of beer.” “You’ve got a deal!” exclaimed Joe. He turned to Shaggy. “Who’s the greatest ballplayer of all time?” The dog seemed perplexed and didn’t respond. “C’mon, Shaggy. You know … Babe …” Shaggy’s expression brightened, and he took Joe’s cue. “R-r-r-Ruth!” Max’s eyebrows lifted with suspicion. Joe posed a second question. “What’s on top of every house?” Shaggy, his tail wagging happily, answered, “R-r-r-roof!” The bartender grimaced. “And, how does sandpaper feel, Shaggy?” Practically ecstatic, tail beating side to side like a manic metronome, Shaggy growled, “R-r-r-rough!” Max scowled, his face crimson. Speeding out from behind the bar, he grabbed Joe by the seat of his pants, lifted him tiptoe, and hustled him outside, forcefully shoving him through barroom doors, pitching Joe into the street’s gutter. It was a classic “bum’s rush.” Moments later, Max tossed the dog out, yelling at Joe, “And don’t ever come back here again, you bum! You and your mutt and your two-bit con.” Dejected, Joe sat at the curb, brushing himself. He stroked Shaggy’s head down-grain—softly, comfortingly. The dog’s inky-black, fathomless, moist eyes seemed ready to weep as he looked up at Joe in sorrowful confusion. “Was it something I said?”       Support local, independent news – contribute to The Fallon Post, your non-profit (501c3) online news source for all things Fallon. Never miss the local news -- read more on The Fallon Post home page.